


in my dark there's a light

by MissjuliaMiriam



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, Cuddling, Drug Use, FaceFucking, Hallucinations, Hurt No Comfort, I can't QUITE tag this as self-harm but... it sort of is, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Poor Negotiation, Praise Kink, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, YEAH THIS IS UH. QUITE THE COLLECTION OF TAGS AND I'M SORRY.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 18:27:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16164425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissjuliaMiriam/pseuds/MissjuliaMiriam
Summary: In Hyperion City, sometimes people tipped in drugs. In his defense, Junousuallygave them away or flushed them, but... he did claim he'd try anything once.Or, in which Juno makes some poor choices re: his coping mechanisms as usual, and then his subconscious is both very mean and very gentle with him at the same time for a while.





	in my dark there's a light

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhh this is a Monstrosity and I'm sorry? It wasn't supposed to have porn and then it just. Kept getting more upsetting.
> 
> Title is from Dream, by OneRepublic.
> 
> Enjoy?

Juno didn’t actually _know_ that Tamsyn Duke was a drug dealer when he took her case, but pretty much everyone in Hyperion City was a criminal of some sort or another, and it’s not like it wasn’t a good cause. Missing kids always got to him, one way or another. He found her daughter and returned her, thankfully unharmed, and blacked her shitty kidnapper’s eye while he was at it, and politely finished filling out the invoice while Ms. Duke hugged her daughter and they cried on each other a bit.

When she was done, Ms. Duke stood and said, “Thank you so much, Detective Steel. Listen, I’ll pay you, but take this too—” and pulled a small glass bottle with a single pill in it out of her purse. “I promise I’m not trying to get you hooked. It’s Dream.”

Dream. Juno’d heard of it, actually—for once, not even that it was ruining people’s lives and so on and so forth. Or, well, it still _could_ , but only the worst shit was really chemically addictive these days; rich folks could afford drugs that only got you hooked if you were too fucked in the head to stop yourself from coming back, and Dream was one of those. It was supposed to be a real good time, too.

“Thanks?” Juno said, and took the bottle. “Hope you don’t mind if I sell this on a streetcorner instead of using it myself.”

She shrugged. “I don’t care what you do with it. But if you ever want more, come talk to me.”

“... Sure.” That sounded like a bad business model, but who was he to judge? He’d definitely undercharged her for the three and a half days he’d spent finding her daughter, and the number of hours of sleep he’d lost during it.

She left and took her daughter with her, the little girl bundled tightly in her arms, and Juno sighed and looked around his office. It was a mess, and he should probably clean up, but… he was tired. He could hear Rita saying goodbye to Ms. Duke and the little Miss Duke, and then the front door shut too.

“That was great, Mistah Steel!” Rita said, appearing in the doorframe.

Juno jumped, his hand clenching so tight around the bottle that for a moment he thought he was going to break it and lose a thousand creds of hallucinogens between his cracked simulated wood floorboards. “Rita!”

“Sorry, Mistah Steel, didn’t realize you were lost in thought. But wow, what a case! The day saved once again, and such a cute little girl, finally reunited with her mother! It’s perfect, don’cha think?”

“Sure, Rita,” Juno sighed, setting the bottle down gingerly on his desk. “Look, Rita, can you mail the invoice and close up here? I’m going to head home. Long day.”

“Sure thing, boss!” She beamed at him, then glanced at the bottle. “Did Ms. Duke give you that? What is it?”

“Yeah--a tip, I guess,” he said. He picked it up again and stuck it in the pocket of his coat. “I’ll hand it off to the first junkie I see on my way home, I guess.”

“If you say so, Mistah Steel. Have a nice night now, y’hear? Pour yourself a bubble bath and have a lady’s night for yourself!”

He waved her off, and with a quiet goodnight headed out of the office. His beat-up car was parked just outside the building, and he drove home, the bottle burning a hole in his pocket as he went. There were a few addicted streetfolk here and there in the neighbourhood; he knew where they lived, and it never hurt to get some goodwill with the people who saw everything… or nothing, if they didn’t like you. But he didn’t stop off and give away the Dream, and by the time he got home, he was cursing himself, knowing that he wasn’t going to. A little bit of escapism never hurt, sure… except when it did, and it would be just his luck if he were the schmuck to find out that Dream induced psychotic breaks in people who were already just the right kind of broken, or some equally unpleasant side-effect. Then again, it had been a gift genuinely meant, and he would, after all, try anything once. He’d probably never get his hands on a dose of Dream again; might as well.

There was leftover takeout in the fridge, so Juno absently crammed some of that down his throat, not tasting it, as he stared down the bottle that he’d set on the table in front of him when he came in. His jacket he’d flung across the back of a chair, and he was unsure of whether to bother with undressing--apparently dosing up on Dream wasn’t much different from going to sleep, and you stayed under a while. It wasn’t like he’d notice the discomfort of his belt digging into his waist, but he might regret it in the morning. Not that taking off his belt and putting on nightclothes were going to _stop_ him from regretting this in the morning, but it was the thought that counted.

So he tossed the carton and got ready for bed, poured a drink and then thought better of it, and threw himself down onto his unmade bed with the bottle in his hand.

“Am I really doing this?” he asked his ceiling, which, really, was an idiotic question. Of course he was, because he was a stupid self-destructive fuck with no impulse control, god damn it. So he sat up again and wrestled the tiny cork out of the tiny bottle ( _rich people packaging_ , he thought, or maybe rudimentary childproofing; Ms. Duke did have six-year-old at home) and popped the pill, trying not to think about the _last_ time he’d swallowed an unlabeled pill.

Juno laid back on his bed the moment he started to feel fuzzy, only a few minutes after swallowing the pill, and let the quickly-rising tide of blackness pull him under. If it turned out to be poison after all, at least it was quick.

*** 

Juno opened his eyes. His own apartment’s ceiling stared back at him, and he sighed. “Right,” he said to himself, and closed his eyes again. He was alone. He’d woken up alone a thousand times; why did it feel like such a let-down _this_ time?

Somewhere in the apartment, a door closed. Juno bolted upright, going for the gun he kept under the pillow. He grasped it, checked that it was set to stun, and crept out of bed as quietly as possible. Someone was shuffling around in his kitchen; he could hear it now. A cupboard opened and then closed, then the fridge. Something was poured into a bowl. The sound of a drawer. As he drew closer, he could hear under the sounds of someone, of all things, _cooking breakfast_ in his damn kitchen the sound of that same someone humming very softly under their breath. The tune was familiar, but he couldn’t place it—and then he rounded the corner, and all the breath went out of his chest.

“Juno!” said Peter Nureyev, turning away from the kitchen counter. “Goodness. Did you forget I was going to be home this morning? I’m sure I sent you my itinerary.”

_I’m dreaming_ , Juno remembered suddenly. Nothing else about this had seemed unreal enough to trigger the lucidity built into the drug he’d taken, but this, Nureyev standing in his kitchen in a soft shirt and an apron, looking at him with those gentle eyes—that was a fantasy. Something conjured from the depths of his subconscious as what he wanted most in the world, the thing that would bring him the most pleasure. That was how the drug was marketed: it’ll let you live your deepest, most vivid fantasies in lucid detail, the things you’ll enjoy the most, that’ll make you the happiest, give you pleasure in every form. Dream comes tailored, too, sometimes with a soporific for relaxing dreams, or an aphrodisiac for sexy ones. This must’ve been garden variety. Eight hours of whatever the most straightforward version of “happy” could possibly be, which of course for Juno Steel was never going to be simple. Mostly he just wanted to cry, actually.

“Hi, Nureyev,” he said, and lowered the gun. “Long time no see.”

“It’s only been a few weeks, darling,” Nureyev—fuck, _Peter_ —said, putting down his mixing bowl on the counter and coming over. One of his hands came to rest on Juno’s cheek, the other on his waist, and he leaned in to press the softest of kisses to Juno’s lips. “I missed you too, though. Never doubt that.”

Juno huffed a broken laugh against Peter’s lips and surged closer, grabbing onto him tightly and catching the surprised noise he made in his mouth. He got less than a full day of this; he was going to take advantage.

Peter seemed on board, at least. He let Juno drive him back against the counter, and kissed back fiercely. In no time, they were grinding hard against on another, and Juno realized that if he was only going to get one shot at this, he wanted to do better than rubbing off like a teenager. So he dropped to his knees, ignoring the slightly ache, and rubbed his cheek against Peter’s thigh. Peter moaned, long and low, and wrapped the long fingers of one of his hands into Juno’s hair. Juno didn’t hesitate in yanking Peter’s pants down and shoving the apron aside to get his lips on Peter’s cock. It was only half-hard still, but Juno let small licks and kisses pressed to Peter’s thighs and a hand brought up to cup his balls do the work of getting him the rest of the way there before he wrapped his lips around the head and sucked.

“Oh, _Juno_ ,” said Peter, his voice gone raspy and intense in the way Juno had only heard once before. His hand tightened to the point of pain in Juno’s hair, just the way Juno liked it, and he rocked his hips forward. Juno let his mouth fall open and took it, feeling almost grateful for the way he choked when Peter’s cock pressed against the back of his throat. Peter didn’t stop, just pressed further, until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. His whole world narrowed down to the feeling of Peter in his mouth, the smell of him in the air, his taste. Peter’s hand was yanking at his hair, the other dropped down to wrap around the back of Juno’s neck and hold him steady as Peter fucked his mouth. It was all Juno could do to swallow and take tiny gasps of air when Peter pulled back, moaning hopelessly.

“Juno,” Peter was saying. “So beautiful, Juno. You’re so very good for me, on your knees. What a lovely welcome home—ah, god, your mouth is heaven. You’re s-so fucking good for me. Taking my cock like that, my darling, it feels so good, you’re doing such a good job.”

Juno whimpered around his mouthful, and above him Peter shuddered.

“Just like that,” he whispered, then thrust hard into Juno’s throat and went still, coming so deep that Juno couldn’t even taste it. Peter pulled back a little to let Juno catch some of it in his mouth, and Juno swallowed, then cleaned him off with his tongue, his mind blank. Everything was… so much.

He blinked and then Peter was beside him, kneeling on the kitchen floor and holding him close, kissing his face and whispering something that slowly came into focus, “—so good, my darling, I’m so sorry I was away when you were low, I see now, it’s alright. I’m here, Juno. I’m here with you, just breathe, it’s okay.”

“Peter,” Juno said, his voice raspy and choked. Swollen from having had Peter’s cock down it a moment ago, and, he realized, broken by the tears which were pouring down his face. He raised a hand to wipe his cheeks and found that it was shaking terribly.

“Come on, let me get you up,” Peter said, and gently brought Juno up off his knees. “I’m sorry, darling, I hadn’t realized how intense that would be for you.”

“S’okay,” Juno said. It didn’t matter. He’d just… he’d wanted to show Peter how much he __missed__ him. How glad he was that he was there. “Just wanna be with you.”

Peter made soothing noises as he led Juno over to the couch and bundled him up there in a soft blanket that smelled distantly and nostalgically familiar, not like Peter—like an older, less sharp-edged comfort. Then Peter wrapped himself around Juno as well and stroked his back until Juno stopped shivering and relaxed into his chest. The soft touch of Peter’s hand on his back was almost overwhelming in itself, when Juno couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched lovingly before this. It might have been that night, back then.

“You were making breakfast,” Juno mumbled after what felt like a long time, his lips pressed against Peter’s collarbone.

“Indeed I was, darling,” Peter said, and bent his neck to press a kiss to Juno’s hair. “Why don’t you come sit at the table while I finish cooking and then have a bite, and we can catch up?”

Juno made a vaguely agreeable noise and extracted himself reluctantly from the clinging grasp of the blanket and Peter Nureyev’s never ending limbs, then tottered to the kitchen table. He felt drunk, dazed. Not blissed out, really, the way he got after good sex—not that the sex hadn’t been good despite his not having orgasmed, but it had been so intense and he was pretty sure he’d lost time there at the end, thinking back on it. It didn’t matter. Peter was there to look after him; was even now in the kitchen finishing with the omelette he’d been putting together. Peter chatted idly at him as he cooked, telling a story about the unimpressed early-morning grocery clerk he’d purchased vegetables and eggs from on his way to Juno’s apartment, knowing that there was only about a 50% chance that there would be food in Juno’s fridge. Juno smiled at his back, not caring to mask the sappiness of his expression; Peter couldn’t see it.

They had breakfast in his kitchen, warm daylight coming in through the window, and caught up. Juno talked about his last few jobs, about rescuing little Miss Duke; Peter laughed and, putting on the affect of Duke Rose, said, “I appreciate your saving my namesake, beloved.”

Then Peter filled Juno in on where he’d been—another daring adventure across the galaxy, this time to steal the formula for a medication from a corporation that had been hoarding it and jacking up the prices; he’d sold it to the activists who had been lobbying for the corporation to be punished for a small fee.

“We’ll use the money for a nice dinner, maybe,” Peter said, smiling. “Perhaps I can persuade you to wear a gown, my love?”

Juno rolled his eyes. “You know I don’t like to get dressed up like that.”

Peter took Juno’s hand and kissed the back of it. “But I love seeing you when you’re at your best, Juno. Just think about it. For me?”

“Well,” Juno said, and couldn’t think of a non-sappy way to say _if it’s for you, I guess I will_ , so he didn’t say anything. But he thought that Peter understood.

They spent the afternoon curled together on the couch, Peter reading, sometimes aloud, from a book of poetry. Juno put on the radio to a station playing soft jazz music and allowed himself to rest against Peter and bask.

After a time, Peter replaced his bookmark and he said, softly, “You know I love you very much, right Juno?”

“I know,” Juno said, and turned his face up for a kiss, which Peter granted, sweet and chaste. “I love you too.”

“Why don’t you nap, darling? You seem tired, after all your hard work on Miss Duke’s case.”

“Sounds good, Peter,” Juno said, and snuggled down closer. Peter wrapped an arm more securely around him, holding him close.

“You’ve earned it, Juno,” Peter murmured as Juno closed his eyes. “Rest well, my dear detective. I’ll be here when you wake, and we’ll revisit the idea of dinner, hm?”

“Mm,” said Juno, already halfway gone, and then sleep overtook him entirely.

***

Juno opened his eyes. His own apartment’s ceiling stared back at him, and he sighed. “Right,” he said, and closed his eyes again.

**Author's Note:**

> Juno makes some extremely bad choices in this fic, because he knows he's at risk for psychological addiction and he does it anyway. I'd also like to note that what dream-Peter does constitutes extremely poor kink etiquette, and real-Peter would never be so rough without negotiation, nor would he keep going when it became obvious that Juno was distressed (which was uh, definitely BEFORE Juno blacked out, but Juno is an Unreliable Narrator). However, Juno's subconscious is controlling the scenario, and that means that Juno get to both have his desire to be intimate with Peter and his desire to be _punished_ by Peter satisfied at the same time. This Is Not Healthy.
> 
> I... was going to promise that the next thing I write and post will be less upsetting, but who the fuck knows. Who's in control here, not me, idk. Comments might prompt penance fic and/or fluff though, try that!


End file.
